Answered Wishes and Unlikely Angels
by Keitorin Asthore
Summary: "Maybe send an angel," seven year old Blaine whispered. "The nicest angel you have." He didn't know that angels could look like angry little blue-eyed boys, but he was just happy to have his wish answered. AU. Inspired by Lilo and Stitch.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Glee belongs to Ryan Murphy and Fox, not me. Lilo and Stitch belongs to Chris Sanders and Disney.

* * *

><p><em>I'm late, I'm late, I'm late, <em>Blaine thought frantically. _Wes is going to _kill _me._

He scrambled into the back door of the community center, his small damp hand slipping on the handle, and ran inside. His sneakers squelched loudly as he ran down the hallway, struggling to pull on his uniform shirt and vest as he went. He dumped his backpack on the floor outside the backstage door, pausing just long enough to kick off his sneakers and slide into his loafers without bothering with socks, and tiptoed inside.

The other Hatchlings were already rehearsing their newest number, hopping from side to side and snapping their fingers. All of them were neatly dressed in their choir uniform- gray shorts, navy vests, white shirts, striped ties, white knee socks, and black loafers- and they all harmonized easily with one boy at the front leading them. Blaine frowned. _Wes got the solo again, _he thought glumly.

He snuck forward, edging towards the back of the group before sliding into his usual place. No one noticed him or stopped the music to scold him, and with a pleased grin he joined in with the other Hatchlings, singing with all of his little heart.

They were almost at the big finish when Wes suddenly yelped and slipped backwards in a puddle of water, landing squarely on David. Both boys tumbled down; Blaine hopped out of the way before he got bowled himself. The a capella song died away as the choir of elementary school boys started hollering and yelling at each other, half of them sprawled on the floor.

"Boys, boys," their choir director called, bounding onto the stage. Will pulled Wes up by the back of his vest and helped David to his feet. "Stop it."

"I'm never going to be a Warbler if we can't even rehearse properly," Wes whined.

"You're only seven," David pointed out. "You can't be a Warbler until you're in high school." Wes rolled his eyes.

Will sighed. "Blaine, why are you all wet?" he asked. "You're dripping all over the stage."

Blaine pushed back his wet curls. "It's sandwich day," he said. "Every Thursday I have to take Pudge the fish a peanut butter sandwich."

Will raised an eyebrow. "Pudge is a fish?" he said.

"And today we were out of peanut butter," Blaine explained.

Jeff snickered and Nick elbowed him sharply. Will sighed and squatted down to Blaine's eye level. "You're not making much sense, buddy," he said.

Blaine tangled his hands together behind his back and rubbed the back of his ankle with the top of his other foot. "We didn't have peanut butter, right? So I asked my sister what to give him, and she said a tuna sandwich," he said. "I can't give Pudge tuna! Don't you know what tuna is?"

"Fish?" Will guessed.

"It's fish!" Blaine said, dropping his hands. "If I gave Pudge tuna, I'd be an abomination! He'd be a cannibal!" He sighed heavily. "I'm late because I had to go to the store and get a new jar of peanut butter 'cause all we have is…is tuna!"

"Blaine, I don't understand," Will said. "Why…why do you need to feed Pudge a peanut butter sandwich?"

Blaine blinked. "Pudge controls the weather," he said.

The other boys stared at him for a second. Will rubbed the back of his neck, obviously trying to summon up some kind of response. "You're crazy," Wes said flatly.

Blaine scowled, his eyebrows drawing down, and leaped at Wes, pulling at his hair and his neatly-tied tie. Wes shrieked, kicking and punching back, but Blaine was too fast. He sank his sharp little teeth into Wes's arm, making the other boy howl in pain.

Will grabbed Blaine around the waist and hoisted him physically off the ground. "That's enough!" he said, setting Blaine aside. He helped Wes up and patted at the bite marks on his arm. "Boys, calm down." He sighed heavily. "Blaine…"

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Blaine exclaimed quickly, hopping back. "I won't do it again. I'm sorry."

Will patted Wes's back. "I think we should call your sister, buddy," he said.

"No! I'll be good!" Blaine protested. "I'll be on my best behavior. I want to sing." He swallowed hard. "I practiced. I just want to sing. I practiced."

Will shook his head. "I think you'd better go wait on the steps," he said.

Blaine's shoulders drooped. He slunk away through the wings, keenly aware of the other boys staring at him. His things were still scattered helter-skelter across the floor; reluctantly he picked up his clothes and shoes as he changed back out of his choir uniform and packed his backpack.

He slipped out through the back hallway and went to sit obediently on the steps like he'd been told. The Ohio summer afternoon was hot and humid. He sat with his chin in his hands, watching the people and cars go by. Once again, he was by himself. He didn't think he liked it.

His little wristwatch chimed four o'clock, and the other boys poured out of the auditorium doors and onto the sidewalks, all of them chatting and laughing. Will stepped up and patted his shoulder. "I called your sister," he said. "She said for you to wait here till she can pick you up." He squeezed Blaine's shoulder. "We'll try again next week, okay?"

Will disappeared back into the community center. Blaine sighed heavily, his rapidly drying curls ruffling in the breeze. In the distance he could see the other boys heading down the sidewalk, and suddenly he bolted off the hot concrete steps and jogged after them, his backpack bouncing on his shoulders.

Wes clutched a big Power Ranger figure in one hand and held out his arm for the other boys to see. "Does this look infected to you?" he inquired, scrutinizing the little red puncture marks in his skin. David nodded.

"You better not have rabies," Nick warned.

Jeff hopped anxiously from one foot to the other. "If you have rabies, the dogcatcher is going to have to cut your whole arm off!" he said cheerfully.

Blaine approached them shyly. "Are you guys going to play?" he asked.

The other boys hopped back in surprise, hiding their Power Rangers and GI Joes and Transformers behind their backs. "You don't have any action figures, though," Jeff said. Nick elbowed him again.

"I kind of do," Blaine said. He fumbled in his backpack and pulled out a soft, floppy, shapeless doll. "This is Scrump. Francey made him for me!" He petted the toy's tummy. "His head is too big for his body, though because Francey doesn't sew very well. So I pretend that he-"

He looked up to see that the boys were gone.

Blaine glanced around to see if maybe they were just hiding or something, but no. They were gone. He could hear them laughing down the street.

He looked down at the limp plushie in his arms and glared at it. "Why can't you be like everyone else?" he accused. With a vicious jerk he threw it to the ground and stomped away.

But he only took a few steps before he glanced back at poor discarded little Scrump lying on the pavement and he ran back. "I'm sorry," he whispered as he scooped his beloved little stuffed animal in his arms, brushed the asphalt scruff away, and kissed it between the lopsided ears.

He ran down the sidewalk towards his house, still clutching Scrump to his chest. His house wasn't that far from the town of Westerville, but it was on the outskirts, near the lake. When he was little, he loved living right next to the pretty blue lake right in the middle of the trees. But that was when his mommy and daddy had been alive. Now it was just him and his sister, and now they just seemed far away from everything in their ramshackle old house.

He ran up the creaky front steps, skipping over the middle broken one, and grabbed his house key off his lanyard. The door slammed behind him and he whirled around to stare at it.

"Francey's gonna kill me for going home by myself," he said aloud. He could just imagine his older sister freaking out when she realized he was gone. She'd probably yell. And Francey yelling was scary.

Hastily Blaine snatched up a hammer and nails lying around from Francey's latest home-improvement experiment (trying to build a new bookshelf; it was too crooked to keep anything up and only one shelf was in) and nailed the front door shut.

Satisfied with his handiwork, he looked around the empty living room and frowned. Now he was alone, but he was still lonely. He dragged out his mom's old record player and slid one of her favorite old Elvis records, then carefully turned it on. When he was little, his mother used to chide him for trying to play the records, since he usually scratched them, but Francey didn't care. He laid down on the living room floor and folded his hands on his stomach, closing his eyes as Elvis crooned in his ear.

He was half asleep and considering crawling upstairs to take a nap in Francey's bed when he heard a pounding on the door. "Blaine!" Francey hollered. "Blaine, open this door!"

"Go away," he called.

"Blaine, we don't have time for this!" Francey shouted.

He glanced towards the door. "Leave me alone to die," he said morosely.

Francey stuck her head through the doggie door, glaring fiercely as her long curls snagged on his makeshift nailing job. "Come on, Blaine, the social worker's going to be here any minute!" she said.

He sighed. Francey huffed and started prying at the nails. "I am going to stuff you in a blender, push puree, and bake you in a pie and feed you to the social work," she threatened. "And when she says 'mm, this is great, what's your secret?' I'm going to say-"

Francey suddenly vanished out of the doggie door as if someone had yanked her away. "Love," he heard her say sweetly. "And…nurturing."

He propped himself up on his elbows, trying to listen. Suddenly he heard Francey's rapid footsteps behind him as she pushed open the back door and cut through the kitchen. She nudged the record player with her foot as she ran, kicking the needle off its path. "Hey!" he protested. She ignored him and darted back into the kitchen, throwing the back door wide open.

The social worker stood in the doorway, a tall angular woman with blonde hair and a skeptical expression. Blaine sat up. She didn't look very welcoming. "So," Francey said, slightly out of breath. "Lemonade?"

The social worker stepped inside. "So, you often leave your little brother at home, unsupervised, with possibly dangerous tools around?" she said skeptically

Blaine stood up slowly and peeked around the doorway. "No, never," Francey lied. "Well, you know. Except for now. I had to run to the store to get some-"

The social worker glanced around the kitchen, raising an eyebrow at the overheated stove. Francey darted to shut it off. "So you left the stove on while you ran out," the social worker said. "Potential fire hazards, check…"

"Just on low heat. You know. To simmer," Francey said. She glanced over and caught sight of Blaine. "Blaine! There you are." She took him by the shoulders and propelled him towards the social worker. "Blaine, Babbie, honeyface, this is the social worker."

"Sue Sylvester," she said, jutting out her chin.

He held out his hand. "Pleasure to meet you," he said politely. "My name is Blaine Anderson."

She glanced down. "I don't shake hands with small children," she said. "They're usually sticky, and I don't enjoy that." Blaine hastily withdrew his hand, not bothering to argue.

"You don't look like a social worker," he said. Francey shook her head at him.

"I'm a special classification," Sue Sylvester said. "I'm specially trained for dangerous circumstances."

Blaine tilted his head to the side. "Have you ever killed anyone?" he inquired.

Sue Sylvester looked down at him. "We're getting off the subject," she said.

"But you didn't answer my-"

"Let's talk about you," the social worker interrupted. "Are you happy? Not that I care, but the higher-ups want to know."

Blaine offered her a charming smile. "I'm adjusted," he said. "I eat four food groups a day and look both ways before crossing the street and I take long naps and I see my therapist every Monday."

"Therapist, huh?" Sue Sylvester said. "A kid as young as you has to go listen to all that namby-pamby 'how does that make you feel?' crap?"

Francey tugged Blaine closer, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. "He took our parents' death really hard," she said, almost defensively.

"No need to get worked up, princess poodle hair," Sue Sylvester said. "How do you pay those bills?"

"We manage," Francey said stiffly. "We were supposed to inherit our trust funds, but our uncle won't sign them over."

"Francey says we're poor," Blaine offered, trying to helpful. "We weren't poor when Daddy and Mama were alive, though."

Francey stiffened. "Okay, that's enough sugar for you," she said, giving him a push back towards the living room. "Why don't you run along and play, you little cutie."

He looked back and frowned at her as she pushed him out of the kitchen. Instead of obeying, he hid behind the doorway to listen in. "The other social workers thought he was a scream," Francey said, half-apologetic. "He's so little and dapper…"

"All right, let's cut the crap," Sue Sylvester said flatly. "I don't think you understand the precarious position in which you find yourself. You see, I'm the one they call when things go wrong. And trust me, Curls McGee, things have gone very, very wrong."

He ducked into the living room as Sue Sylvester strode out of the kitchen. She paused long enough to hand him a business card with her name and cellphone number on it. "Call me next time you're left home alone," she said.

"Thank you," he said politely, tucking the card in the back pocket of his shorts.

Francey followed Sue Sylvester to the door, hastily yanking the door open and scattering Blaine's poorly hammered nails across the carpet. "In case you were wondering, this did not go well," she informed Francey. "You have three days to change my mind."

"Thank you, we'll be in touch," Francey said sweetly. She closed the front door, then whipped around and glared at Blaine.

"Don't kill me!" Blaine shrieked, scrambling away.

Francey grabbed him by the back of his tee shirt. "You were supposed to wait at the community center!" she scolded. "You were supposed to wait there!" He clamped his lips shut and she gave him a firm shake. "Blaine!"

He gritted his teeth. She grabbed his chin and forced him to look at her. "Do you not understand? Do you want to be taken away from me, is that it?" she demanded. "Answer me!"

"No!" he yelped.

"No, you don't understand?"

"No!"

"No, what?"

"No!"

She gave him another frustrated little shake as he went limp in her grip. "You're such a pain!" she said.

"So why don't you sell me and buy a rabbit instead?" he taunted as he wriggled out of her grasp.

"At least it would behave better than you!" she retorted.

He pulled away and scrambled on his hands and knees. "Go ahead!" he yelled. "Then you'll be happy because it'll be smarter than me too!"

"And quieter, don't forget quieter!" Francey shouted. "If I have to hear you sing those damn choir songs one more time, I'm going to shave your head!"

He ran up the stairs, pausing at the landing to stick his head through the railing. "At least I'll still be prettier than you!" he yelled.

Francey kicked at her half-assembled bookshelf, cracking it down the middle and scattering pieces over the floor. "Go to your room, you fucking brat!" she screamed.

"I am in my room!" he shouted back, slamming the door so hard he tripped and fell on the floor. He stumbled to his feet and leaped onto his messy, unmade bed, burying his face in his pillow and screaming at the top of his lungs, the sound muffled.

He rolled onto his back and hugged his pillow to his heaving chest. The photograph he kept hidden under his pillow fluttered away and he lunged to catch it. He sighed as he studied it. They all looked so happy, the four of them standing on the dock by the lake. Sometimes he forgot how pretty his mother was, or how his father's eyes crinkled up when he smiled, or how Francey used to laugh like that all the time.

He swallowed hard around the lump in his throat and tucked the picture back underneath his pillow, then laid back down to stare at the ceiling, his thoughts tangling his mind.

It was dark when Francey tapped his bedroom open. "Hey," she said softly. "I brought you some pizza, in case you were hungry."

She crept a little closer, but he didn't look at her. "We're a broken family, aren't we?" he whispered.

"No," she said. She set the plate down on his nightstand, turned on the lamp, and sat down next to him. "Well, maybe a little."

He watched his ceiling fan turn lazily. "Maybe a lot," he corrected.

Francey sighed and reached over to rub his tummy. "I'm sorry I yelled at you," she said.

"You're my big sister and I'm your little brother," he shrugged. "That's supposed to be our job."

"Yes, well, from now on-"

"I like you better as a sister than a mom," he said.

Francey sort of smiled, still tracing her fingertips along his tummy. "Yeah?" she said.

His eyes watered. "And you like me better as a brother than a rabbit, right?" he ventured, his lips trembling.

"Oh," Francey said with a start. "Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh." She scooped him and settled him on her lap, pressing his head to her shoulder. "Yes." She kissed the top of his head. "Yes, I do."

He snuggled against her. "I hit Wes Chang today," he confessed.

"Really?" she said.

"Before I bit him."

She sighed. "Well, did he at least deserve it?" she asked.

He pulled one of Francey's long ringlets over her shoulder and twined it around his finger. "He said I was crazy," he said. "I'm not crazy, am I?"

"You're not," she said. "You're very unusual for a seven-year-old boy, but you're not crazy."

He wrapped her silky curl around his pointer finger. "They treat me different," he said quietly.

"They just don't know what to say," she said.

He let go of the curl, watching it spring back into shape. "Even before Daddy and Mama died, they treated me different," he whispered. "Why do I have to be different, Francey?"

She kissed him softly on the cheek. "You're just special," she said. "Listen, let's make a deal. If you promise not to fight anymore, I promise not yell at you anymore. Except on special occasions."

He cuddled a little closer. "Tuesdays and bank holidays would be nice," he suggested. Suddenly something bright outside his window caught his eye and he bolted upright. "A falling star!" He scrambled off his sister's lap. "I call it! I call it! Get out! I have to make a wish!" He grabbed her by the arm and started tugging her towards the door. "Can't you go any faster, Frances?"

"Oh no!" Francey said. "Gravity! It's increasing on me!"

She leaned back against him; he huffed and tried to shove her back. "No, it's not!" he argued.

"Oh, yes it is, Blaine, the same thing happened last week," she said cheerfully before flopping over and pinning him to the floor.

"You stupid sister, your butt is _crushing _me!" he screeched, pushing her off of him and scrambling back into his room. "Why are you so weird!'

He flailed at the door, closing it part of the way, and clambered onto his windowseat. Carefully he raised the sash and leaned on the ledge, clasping his hands together. "It's me again," he said, gazing up at the starry sky. "I would like to make a wish, please."

No one answered him. He took a deep breath, breathing in the scent of the pine trees, and looked up. "I need someone to be my friend," he said. "Someone who won't run away." He brightened. "Maybe an angel. The nicest angel you have." He squared his shoulders. "So that's my wish. Thank you very much. And…amen, I suppose."

He climbed down from the bench and turned around to see Francey standing in the doorway, her green-gold eyes very soft. "You should be in bed," she said. "Come on. Put on your PJs and brush your teeth." She cleared her throat. "And maybe…maybe tomorrow we can go down to the animal shelter and find you a puppy. Would you like that?"

"Daddy said we couldn't have a puppy," Blaine objected. "He's allergic."

Francey swallowed hard. "Yeah, well, I'm the boss now, and I say we should get a puppy," she said. She spanked him playfully. "Come on. Bedtime, Babbie."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>

OH MY GOODNESS WHAT IS THIS I DON'T EVEN.

Welp, you know how I said I would update the baby story every Sunday? Well, this is my new Monday story.

I was watching Lilo and Stitch earlier today. It's one of my all time favorite movies. And so I'm sitting there, and it gets to the scene where Lilo tells Stitch about how her parents died, and asks him if he dreams about his family, and says she hears him cry at night. And that whole scene, I have lip wibbles (like usual) and I'm all verklempt and...

...and then I think _what if little Blaine was Lilo and little Kurt was Stitch?_

Weird, yes. Adorable? I certainly hope so!

I've already written about half of the next chapter, and it is _adorable. _Little Kurt is so unhappy and surly and little Blaine just loves him.

So yeah. I hope you like this, even for all of its weirdness!


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Glee belongs to Ryan Murphy and Fox, not me. Lilo and Stitch belongs to Chris Saunders and Disney.

* * *

><p>Blaine skipped happily beside his sister as they walked towards the animal shelter, their clasped hands swinging. He hopped through the puddles left behind from last night's rainstorm, gleefully splashing them both. "I want a big dog," he said. "Like Scooby Doo. Can we get a Scooby Doo?"<p>

"We need to get something sturdy," Francey said. "Something that won't poop on the carpet and won't die."

"Like a lobster!" Blaine suggested.

She looked down at him. "What the fuck?" she said. "No, Blaine, we can't get a pet lobster. We don't have a lobster door, do we? No. We have a doggie door. Ergo, we're getting a dog."

"What's 'ergo' mean?" he asked.

"It's a grown up word, you'll know when you're older," she said, tugging impatiently at his hand. "Now come on."

Blaine followed her obediently down the sidewalk, trotting along beside her as he gazed at his surroundings. He stopped dead in his tracks, and Francey nearly tripped. "What the hell was that for?" she asked.

He pointed. "There's a sneaker in the bushes," he said.

"We're poor, Blaine, but we're not so poor that we have to get sneakers off the side of the road," she said. "Come on, let's go."

Blaine pulled away from her grip and crept a little closer to investigate. The dirty, tattered sneaker was connected to a scrawny, dirty ankle and a bony, dirty leg. He dropped down to his hands and knees and crawled into the depths of the bush.

A little boy around his own age slept under the low overhang, one thin forearm covering his eyes. Blaine crawled a little closer. "Hi," he whispered. "Why are you sleeping here?"

The little boy pulled his arm back and opened his eyes lethargically. "H…hi…" he mumbled.

"Blaine, what the hell are…" Francey's voice trailed off as she knelt down next to Blaine. "Oh my god. Oh my god."

The little boy sat up, his blue eyes glazed over. "'m sorry," he mumbled. "'m sorry, I'll go."

"No, don't go," Blaine said, patting the boy's shoulder. The child flinched.

"Honey, where's your parents?" Francey asked gently.

The little boy closed his eyes. "Don't know," he said.

Francey sighed. "Come on, I'd better get you to…to the police, or the hospital or something," she said.

"No!" the little boy said. He scrambled to his feet, pushing Blaine aside as he stumbled onto the sidewalk, but he quickly lost his balance and started to fall forward. Francey caught him and he thumped his fists weakly against her arms. "No police. No hospital. Let me go. I wanna go."

"We should take him home," Blaine decided.

"What about getting you a dog?" Francey argued.

Blaine patted the little boy on the shoulder. He looked paler and filthier in the morning sunshine than he had in his hiding place. His hair, so matted and dirty that the color was indistinguishable, stuck up in the back, and his clothes were torn and stained. "We can wait," he said. "I like him."

"So you want me to take a strange little boy home," Francey said flatly.

"He's good. I can tell," Blaine protested. He sidled up to his big sister and tugged on the hem of her tank top until she bent over. "Francey, I think he's my wish. I think he's supposed to be my angel."

"A dirty little angel," Francey mumbled.

"We need to take him home with us," Blaine pleaded.

Francey sighed. "I offer to let you get a dog and you want me to bring home a strange little boy," she said. "Fine. I can't just leave him here."

The boy wavered on his feet, limp in Francey's grip. "You can come home with us," Blaine said. He held out his hand. "My name is Blaine Anderson, and this is my sister Francey."

The boy carefully placed his hand in Blaine's. "Kurt," he said hoarsely.

"You have a last name?" Francey asked.

Kurt shook his head. "Francey, you should carry him," Blaine insisted.

Francey sighed and picked Kurt up, settling him on her hip like she sometimes carried Blaine when he was really tired. "All right, kids," she said. "Let's go home." She patted Kurt's hip. "We'll get you a bath and some clean clothes and some food, and then we'll see what we can do with you."

Blaine latched on to Kurt's ankle. "My sister's not a very good cook, but she can make pretty good macaroni and cheese from the blue box," he said.

"Gee, thanks, Blaine," Francey sighed.

"So why were you sleeping under a bush?" Blaine inquired. "Don't you have a house? Or a mommy or daddy?"

Kurt clamped his lips shut resolutely. "Can it, Blaine," Francey warned. "If he wants to talk about it, he'll talk about it."

Blaine sighed and obediently stayed quiet on the rest of the walk back to their big shabby house. He ran ahead up the path to unlock the front door; Francey nudged it open with her hip and carried Kurt inside. "Come on, I'll run you a bath," she said. "Blaine, go…clean your room or something."

Blaine obeyed as Francey set Kurt down and walked him into the master bathroom, shutting the door behind them. He pouted at the closed door. "But he's going to be _my _friend," he called forlornly. "I wanna help."

No one answered him, so with a heavy sigh he trooped to his bedroom and started picking up his scattered belongings. After a while Francey slipped into his room and started rummaging through his bureau drawers. Blaine scrambled onto his bed. "Can Kurt and I play now?" he begged.

"He's trying to scrub all the shit out of his hair," Francey said. "I don't think he's had a bath in a week." She pulled a tee shirt out of the drawer and tossed it onto Blaine's head. "I'm letting him borrow some of your clothes. His own stuff is more dirt and holes than actual clothing."

Blaine pulled the shirt off his head and hugged it to his chest. "Where do you think he comes from?" he asked.

"Hell if I know," Francey said, picking through his poorly-folded shorts.

"I think he's an angel," Blaine declared.

Francey did a doubletake. "You think he's a _what_?"

"An angel," Blaine said. He scooted forward on his hands and knees. "I wished for an angel last night."

"Honey, there's no such thing as angels," Francey said, throwing a pair of shorts at him.

His mouth dropped open. "But…you said Daddy and Mama were angels now," he said. "I thought…"

She bit her lip. "You're right," she said gently. "Daddy and Mama probably sent him to you, I guess." She dropped a kiss on the top of his curly head. "I just don't know why a baby like him would be sleeping on the streets like that."

"He's not a baby, he's my age," Blaine said.

She sighed. "You're still a baby too," she said. She gathered the clothes together. "Go make some sandwiches, okay? I'm going to check on Kurt."

"Okay," he said, sliding off his bed. "But I'm not a baby. Babies don't make sandwiches."

She grinned. "Fine, you're not a baby," she said.

He smiled, pleased in his victory, and trotted down the stairs. They didn't have a whole lot of food in the fridge, but there was enough to make several sandwiches. He set up a little assembly line and put them together methodically, humming happily under his breath.

He had just placed the plates on the table along with three cups of Kool-Aid (he had also spilled about a fourth cup's worth across the floor, but hopefully Francey wouldn't notice) and a half-eaten bag of chips when he heard footsteps on the stairs. "Hi!" he said brightly. "I made a lunch."

"Good for you," Francey said. "Kurt, come on. Take a seat."

Blaine watched Kurt follow his sister shyly into the kitchen. His wet hair had been combed neatly across his forehead and his pale skin had been scrubbed pink and clean. Blaine's clothes hung on his thin frame, loose and baggy. "You can sit next to me," Blaine offered.

"Thank you," Kurt said, climbing into the chair Blaine indicated. He picked up his ham and cheese sandwich and bit into it carefully, taking one miniscule bite. Blaine watched him chew, slow and thorough, and finally swallow, as if he was afraid to eat at a normal pace.

"You can eat it," Francey said. "It's not going anywhere." He kept his eyes down. "And don't worry, we can feed you dinner too."

Kurt took a second bite, then a third. "Oh, you're hungry," Blaine said, delighted.

Francey smacked him upside the head. "Stop staring at him and eat," she said.

Blaine hastily obeyed, still stealing glances at Kurt over the crusts of his sandwich. Kurt devoured his sandwich eagerly, as if he hadn't eaten in days, and ate potato chips in enthusiastic handfuls. Francey gave him a sharp critical look, then took a sip of her red Kool-Aid. "I've got some stuff to do in town before work," she said, brushing off her hands and getting up from the table. "You two have to come with me, okay? Blaine, you can take Kurt down to the park or something." She fumbled in the bright blue tote bag hanging by the back door and pulled two crumpled dollar bills out of her wallet. "And you can get snow-cones."

"Okay!" Blaine said, pushing his mostly-eaten sandwich aside. Kurt eyed it hungrily, but he simply stacked their empty plates and carried them up to the edge of the sink.

The three of them headed back towards the town, Kurt's torn and faded sneakers flapping on the sidewalk. "Okay, you two be good," Francey said. "Blaine, you guys can go play, but I want you down at Rock-a-Billy's by five, all right?"

"We'll be there," he promised, submitting his cheek for Francey's kiss. Kurt just stared down at the ground.

"Okay, I'll see you, boys," Francey said, patting them each on the head before turning and walking away.

"Rock-a-Billy's is a restaurant," Blaine explained. "My sister's a waitress. She's not a very good one, because she has to wear roller skates and she drops stuff a lot, but she gets me free milkshakes and stuff."

Kurt nodded. Blaine tugged him in the direction of the sno-cone cart at the edge of the park. "I'm really excited that Francey gave us money for sno-cones," he said. "I think I'm going to get a lime one. Or a blue one. Ooh, or maybe a pink one. Because the lime ones are my favorite, but sometimes they don't have them, but that's okay, because the pink ones are my other favorite. So they're both good." He got in line, Kurt following at his heels. "What kind do you want?"

Kurt shrugged. "I don't know," he said.

"Maybe you can get one with everything on it," he said. He stepped up to the girl working the cart. "Hello, I'm Blaine Anderson. I want a pink strawberry one and a rainbow one, please." He turned to Kurt. "I think you'll like it." Kurt just raised and lowered one shoulder.

The girl handed their cones over with a smile and Blaine handed her his money. He took a long lick of his sno-cone. "Isn't it good?" he said. "It's really nice when it's hot out."

Kurt lapped carefully at his rainbow sno-cone and smiled hesitantly at Blaine. Blaine brightened. "Oh, look, it's my friends!" he exclaimed. He grabbed Kurt by the hand and ran towards the other little boys gathered on the corner.

Wes frowned. "What do you want?" he asked

Blaine paused. "I'm sorry I bit you," he apologized. "And pulled your hair. And punched you in the face."

"Apology _not _accepted," Wes sniffed.

Blaine frowned. "This is my friend Kurt," he said, pushing Kurt forward. "He's my new best friend now. He's an angel. My mama and daddy sent him to me."

Kurt shot him a sharp confused look, one eyebrow skyrocketing up- an oddly old, bitchy look for such a small child. Jeff stared at Kurt unabashed. "He's an angel?" he questioned, reaching out to poke Kurt in the tummy. Kurt skipped back, his sno-cone dripping a little onto the sidewalk.

"There's no such thing as angels," Wes scoffed. "Your mommy and daddy are dead. Remember?"

"But…Francey said…" Blaine said, shoulders slumping.

"Your sister's dumb," Wes said.

Kurt scowled, his delicate features darkening, and in one swift motion he threw his sno-cone in Wes's face. Wes spluttered, brushing at the sticky, brightly colored ice sticking to his face. Nick gaped in horror and Jeff laughed behind his hand. "You're mean," Kurt accused.

"But…but…" Wes sputtered.

"You kind of are," David admitted.

Kurt spun on his heel and marched away, head held high despite his ripped sneakers flapping open and revealing his tiny bare toes. Blaine ran after him, carefully balancing his sno-cone. "Kurt!" he called. "Kurt, wait for me!" He jogged after him. "You don't know where you're going."

Kurt stopped near the edge of the playground, biting his lip. "I didn't mean to do that," he said quietly. "I just…he made me so mad."

"Yesterday he made me so mad I bit him," Blaine offered.

Kurt turned around, twisting his fingers together. "Do you ever get so mad sometimes that you just want to…to tear everything to pieces?" he ventured.

"Uh-huh," Blaine said. "Sometimes."

The two little boys surveyed each other. Blaine held out his hand. "Do you like playing on swings?" he asked.

Kurt nodded, sliding his hand into his and allowing Blaine to lead him to the swingset.

The two of them spent the rest of the hot, lazy afternoon playing. It was a little strange, though. He and Kurt played on the swings and the slide and the jungle gym, running around and shrieking, but Kurt always seemed a little…on edge. Like he was halfway expecting someone to come charging after him.

Even the little things seemed to bother him. Like when the high school boys playing football in the open grass near the playground accidentally threw their ball towards them. One of the boys grinned at them and held up his hands for Blaine to toss it back, but Kurt snatched up first and dropkicked it, smirking as it sailed over the boys' heads.

Or when they took the shortcut through the sandbox to get to the drinking fountain across the way, and Kurt purposefully stomped through a half-built sandcastle. Blaine had frowned, but he hadn't really known what to say.

All he knew was that for a little lost angel, Kurt sure was pretty naughty.

The clock in the town square chimed five, and Blaine wriggled out of the tire swing. "C'mon, Kurt, we have to go," he called.

"No," Kurt said stubbornly from his perch at the top of the playscape. "I don't want to."

"But…my sister said," Blaine responded, tilting his head to the side.

"She's not _my _sister," Kurt retorted.

Blaine itched the back of his arm. "But…it's time for dinner," he said. "And Francey always brings me really good stuff."

Kurt peeked between the bars above Blaine's head. "Well, all right then," he said.

Blaine waited for Kurt to slide down the fireman's pole before holding out his hand and heading towards the restaurant. "You'll like Rock-a-Billy's," he said. "It's yummy there."

Kurt glanced down at their linked fingers. "Why do you hold my hand all the time?" he asked.

Blaine shrugged. "So you won't get lost," he said. "And besides, isn't it nice to hold hands?"

Kurt kept looking down at his bitten-off fingernails and Blaine's slightly chubby fingers and finally just nodded.

Blaine pushed the glass front doors of the café open, grinning as the bells chimed above their heads. A tall, round-faced boy in a button-up striped shirt, roller skates, and glasses rolled up to them. "Hey, there, Blaine," he said. "Your usual table, sir?"

"Anderson, party of two," Blaine said politely, holding up two fingers.

"Ooh, you have a guest," the waiter said. "Who's your friend?"

"This is Kurt," Blaine said. Kurt was too busy gazing around the busy restaurant to say anything. "He's my new best friend. And he's an angel."

"That's a long way to travel," the waiter said seriously. He led the two little boys to a small booth in the back and set two children's menus and a generous handful of crayons in front of them. Blaine clambered into the red vinyl seat, sitting on his knees. The waiter crouched down beside them. "Well, boys, my name is Brantley and I'll be your server today. What can I get you to drink?"

"Coke!" Blaine said.

Brantley raised an eyebrow. "You know how your sister feels about you and soda," he warned.

Blaine sighed. "Lemonade, please," he said reluctantly.

"And for you, mister angel?" Brantley asked.

Kurt blinked. "I'd like water, please," he said.

"Lemonade and a water, coming right up," Brantley said, pushing off from the table and skating towards the kitchen.

"That's Brantley," Blaine explained to Kurt. "My sister calls him Bug, though, 'cause she says he bugs her. And she thinks his name is silly."

"It is a silly name," Kurt said absently as he doodled across his menu.

"That's not very nice," Blaine objected.

Kurt raised and lowered one shoulder and continued to color busily. Blaine stuck out his lower lip. Inspiration struck and he flipped the paper over to draw on the back. He continued to draw as Brantley brought their drinks and took their dinner orders (a cheeseburger for Blaine, chicken fingers for Kurt), and he didn't finish until Kurt's food was gone and he was halfway through his.

"There," he said in satisfaction, holding up his drawing.

Kurt glanced up, a French fry halfway to his mouth. "What is that?" he asked.

Blaine looked from Kurt to his drawing and back. "It's you," he said. "I thought it was pretty good."

"Why am I blue?" Kurt asked warily.

"This is you," Blaine said, thrusting the picture under Kurt's pert, slightly freckled nose. "And this is your badness level. It's unusually high for someone your size. We have to fix that."

Kurt looked up from the dinner he was scarfing down and scowled. "You can't fix me," he said.

"We can try," Blaine said cheerfully. "We'll make you good again."

Kurt's expression darkened. "I'm never good," he mumbled.

Blaine opened his mouth to argue, but his sister rolled up to them on her white roller skates, her poodle skirt swishing as she tried to balance a tray on her hands. "Hey, squirt," she said, ruffling Blaine's hair. "How's it going?"

"Kurt is troubled," Blaine informed her. "I think he needs dessert."

Francey frowned. "You haven't finished your dinner," she said.

"Dessert!" Blaine crowed, waving his crayon in the air.

"Fine," Francey sighed. "I'll see what I can do."

Brantley rolled up to them, two small bowls in his hand. "Already on it," he said, skating smoothly around Francey. He set the bowls down. "Here we are, gentlemen. Snickerdoodle cake and ice cream, on the house."

"Yum!" Blaine said, picking up his spoon. Kurt reached over and dipped his finger in the whipped cream sliding off Blaine's cake. "Hey…that was mine."

Kurt looked up. "Sorry," he said.

Brantley grinned at Francey. "Hey, Baby, how's it going?" he asked.

Francey looked him up and down. "Your fly's undone, Bug," she said before turning around and skating towards the kitchen. Brantley flushed beet red and pulled his zipper up.

"Don't worry, she likes you," Blaine reassured him. "She likes your butt and fancy hair. I know. I read her diary."

Brantley straightened, beaming. "She thinks my hair is fancy?" he said, perking up.

Suddenly Kurt halted in mid-bite of his cake, the spoon dropping into his bowl with a clatter. His eyes had gone wide and very green in his pale face. Blaine blinked. "What's wrong?" he asked.

Kurt shook his head, staring at a booth on the opposite side of the table where two teenage boys, one tall and lanky and the other muscular and mohawked, were eating massive burgers. "I wanna go home," he said in a small voice, still staring. "I wanna go home."

"Are you okay?" Brantley asked, kneeling down to look Kurt in the eyes. "Are you sick?"

He moved to touch Kurt's forehead, as if checking for a fever, but Kurt lunged back. "Don't touch me!" he screamed.

Every patron in the restaurant swiveled to stare at Kurt. Blaine squirmed under their eyes. "Maybe we should-"

Kurt suddenly bolted, knocking his cake over and tripping over his torn up shoes before running straight into another waitress, who shrieked and dropped her tray of milkshakes. Blaine skidded out of the booth and grabbed Kurt by the hand. "Stop it, Kurt, you're being bad again," he scolded.

Kurt panted hard, as if he had just finished a marathon. "I wanna go home," he begged. "I wanna go home."

Francey skated over to them. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" she demanded.

"Kurt wants to go home," Blaine reported, sliding his hand into Kurt's.

"I can't take you guys home, I've got another hour left in my shift," Francey snapped. "I can't bring in enough money to appease the social worker if I leave early."

Brantley touched her arm lightly. "I'll watch your tables," he offered. "It's just an hour." He leaned in close to whisper in her ear. "The little one is freaking out. You should get him home."

Blaine looked back at Kurt, who had hidden under a vacant table in the back. Francey sighed. "Come on, munchkins, get your things," she said. "God, I'm dying to take these skates off. Blaine, get Kurt out from under the table."

The walk home was curiously silent. Francey shouldered her backpack, weighted down by her clanking roller skates, and she held each little boy by the hand, one on each side. Kurt said nothing, his head hanging down as if he was ashamed. Blaine clutched his drawing and tried to keep an eye on Kurt.

Francey unlocked the front door of their house and Blaine pushed it open. "Welcome home," he said cheerfully.

Francey dropped her backpack by the front door, kicked off her flipflops, and tossed her keys on the counter. "I can't believe I had to leave work early," she groused. "My last table was going to tip big time, I can feel it. Stupid little boys making me leave early."

Kurt's spine stiffened. "Be kind to the little angel," Blaine chided.

"For the last time, Blaine, he's not an angel," Francey said, draping herself over the kitchen counter. "He's just a cranky little boy."

"He's just cranky because it's past his bedtime," Blaine defended.

"He's probably like one of those little demon children in horror movies," Francey mumbled into her arms. Kurt just stood by quietly, chin lifted and his mouth pressed tight. "Creepy. I won't be able to sleep with him loose in the house."

"You're always loose in the house and I sleep just fine!" Blaine retorted.

Francey rubbed her eyes. "We can't keep him, Blaine," she said wearily. "We need to call the authorities. Or something. I don't know what the protocol is for lost little boys who sleep under bushes."

"We can't send him away," Blaine said, stomping his foot. "Mama and Daddy sent him to me! He's our family now!"

"He hasn't been here long enough to count as family," Francey said dryly.

"I haven't been here that long either," Blaine countered. "And Mama always said that family sticks together. Nobody gets left behind. Or forgotten."

"Blaine, she said that because Daddy left you at that gas station on I-75 when we were driving to visit our grandparents that one time," Francey said.

"It still counts," Blaine said. He looked back at Kurt, who had gone very white and very still. "Francey, we can't get rid of him."

Francey sighed noisily and stuck her tongue out at him. "Fine. Just take him upstairs and get ready for bed," she said. "I'll be up in a minute to tuck you in."

Blaine happily stuck out his tongue back, then grabbed Kurt by the hand. "C'mon, you can sleep next to me," he said before dragging him up the stairs. He pushed his bedroom door open. "This is my room!"

Kurt surveyed his surroundings carefully. "Pretty," he commented politely.

"This is my bed," Blaine said, patting the mattress. "You can sleep on my trundle, though. It's under my bed!"

Kurt disregarded Blaine completely and crawled up beside him on the bed. He patted the pillow and paused. "Ooh, what's this?" he asked, pulling out the photograph of the Anderson family.

"No!" Blaine cried, snatching it away and hugging it to his chest. "No! You can't touch that! Don't _ever _touch that!"

Kurt stepped back as if he'd been slapped. "I'm…I'm sorry," he stammered. "I didn't…I didn't mean to-

Blaine smoothed the photo lovingly. "You destroy everything you touch," he accused. "You need to learn to be nice."

Kurt's lips trembled like he was about to cry. Blaine carefully replaced the photo and put his pillow down tenderly over it.

Francey tapped the door open. "Seriously, munchkins, get into bed," she said. "Put on pajamas, brush your little teeth. Move, move, move."

Blaine scrambled out of bed to obey, dropping his tee shirt and shorts on the floor and wriggling into his pajamas. Kurt painstakingly untied his shoes, prying at the broken laces. Francey sighed. "I forgot about you," she said. She rummaged through Blaine's drawers and pulled out a set of striped pajamas that he had mostly outgrown. "There you. Pajamas of your very own. Now get dressed and brush your teeth. There's a spare brush in the bathroom drawer."

Blaine hastened to obey, his little bare feet padding on the carpeted hallway as he ran down to the bathroom. Kurt followed slowly, the hand-me-down pajamas hanging on his tiny frame. Blaine was still a little mad at him, but he realized it was kind of hard to be mad when Kurt didn't even look up from the floor and couldn't get toothpaste on his toothbrush. Blaine sighed and squeezed a little bit of bright blue goop onto the brush and was rewarded by Kurt smiling shyly at him.

They wandered back to the bedroom to find Francey putting clean sheets and blankets on the trundle bed. "Kurt, you'll sleep here," she said. "Blainers, get into bed."

"Bedtime story first?" he pleaded.

She rolled her eyes. "Fine," she said, settling down on the bed. "Come on, Kurt, you too." Blaine climbed up beside her and settled into her lap, grabbing his big fairy tale book off his nightstand. Kurt crawled up after him and sat down gingerly on the edge. "What'll it be tonight? The Little Mermaid, Thumbelina, The Snow Queen…"

Blaine watched her flip pages. "Ooh, that one!" he exclaimed.

"The Ugly Duckling?" Francey said. "Okay, we'll go with that."

Kurt peered over Blaine's arm. "What's that?" he asked, pointing to a large picture.

"That's the ugly duckling," Blaine reported. "See? He's sad because he's all alone and no one wants him. But on this page, his family hears him crying and they find him."

Kurt gazed hungrily at the illustration of the little lost duckling surrounded by his parents, and slowly he slid the ring and middle fingers of his left hand into his mouth, sucking his fingers quietly with that lost, starving look in his eyes. Francey glanced over at him and slid an arm around his waist, pulling him gently to her side as she read aloud.

By the time she finished, Blaine was having trouble keep his eyes open. "Bedtime for little boys," Francey said softly, lifting Blaine off her lap and settling him on his bed. She tucked Scrump under his arm, then pulled the comforter around his chin and kissed him on the forehead. "Night, baby."

"Night-night, Francey," Blaine yawned, sprawling across his little bed.

Kurt slid off the mattress and flopped onto the trundle bed, pulling his knees up tightly to his chest. Francey tucked him in too. "Be good," she said. "I'll see you in the morning. Love you."

"Mm-hm," Blaine murmured sleepily, already nearing the shores of dreamland.

Although he fell asleep quickly, he suddenly found himself awake in the middle of the night, staring at the ceiling. _Why'd I wake up? _he thought drowsily.

And then he heard a soft little whimper. He sat up, scratching the back of his neck, and realized Kurt was crying in his sleep.

Blaine slid off the bed, Scrump still tucked under one arm, and toddled over to Kurt. "Why are you crying?" he whispered loudly.

Kurt didn't answer. He was still asleep, his head tilted to the side. Big tears rolled down his cheeks, wetting his pillow in fat drops, and he let out a soft sob.

"Please don't cry," Blaine whispered. He tucked Scrump carefully in the crook of Kurt's arm to keep him safe, but Kurt didn't wake or stop crying. Blaine bit his lip and kissed the sad, sleeping little boy on the cheek.

"I know you miss heaven and stuff, but please be happy," Blaine said, patting Kurt on the shoulder.

Kurt whimpered in his sleep and unconsciously hugged Scrump harder to his narrow chest.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>

LITTLE KURT IS SO ANGRY AND UNHAPPY AND I NEED TO TAKE HIM HOME AND LOVE ON HIM.

But yes! They are precious. So, so precious. Too much precious.

It's really interesting translating Lilo and Stitch into my own little world. But it's fun. Blaine is such a sweet little Lilo. But Kurt. Kuuuuuuuuuuurt.

(Also, did you figure out who Jumba and Pleakley are? BWAHAHAHAHA.)

Brantley has actually been in my headcanon for ages and ages; I think I mentioned him in "Hard to Come By." His full name is Brantley Lancaster Ford III. No wonder Francey calls him Bug.

And snickerdoodle cake is one of my favoritest cakes in the whole wide world. I should post the recipe on my Tumblr at some point.

AND AND AND a myriad of thanks has to go out to the wonderful and adorable and talented Muchacha10, who drew the absolute most adorable picture of the wee little Hatchlings. I about died. (And we get to see more of the Hatchlings in the next chapter. Yay!)

So yes. I hope you're enjoying this weirdly adorable little story! I'm having a ball writing it. :D**  
><strong>


End file.
